


If These Walls Could Talk

by LoversAntiquities



Series: Lonesome Roads [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Creature Castiel, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Back Together, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Scarred Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-01 22:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13305105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Infected with an incurable disease of his Grace, Castiel merges with the earth itself in the hopes that he'll return one day in the future. Though, when he does, he isn't anticipating just how many years have passed, and how Dean's life would be uprooted in the aftermath.They meet for the second time in the last vestiges of winter—and Castiel prays that this time, they can make it work.





	If These Walls Could Talk

**Author's Note:**

> _All of the angry words spoken  
>  Then the silence that follows for days  
> All that leaves a home feeling broken  
> Lord, if these walls could talk, they'd pray_

Along State Route 195 sits a three bedroom, two bath brick home surrounded by nothing but dead grass and scattered pine trees, and a weathered white picket fence leading all the way from the road around the property. A black behemoth of a car sits underneath an awning in the driveway, a few strands of pine straw resting atop its hood. Inside the home, only one light is on, from the rightmost bedroom; in the dark, the illumination is a beacon, the light Castiel has been following for hundreds of miles, all for this one moment.

Yet, Castiel’s feet won’t move. He can’t bring himself to unlock the fence’s gate, nor can he bring himself to knock on the front door. It might’ve been easier years ago, but now, his hands shake and his nape sweats, despite the unseasonable chill in the air. A car passes on the two-lane, fading in and out of the streetlamp’s glow, barely a glimpse in Castiel’s eye before it’s gone.

A shadow walks in front of the bedroom window, obscured by drawn blinds. If Castiel doesn’t move soon, he’ll miss his chance. He’s waited long enough for this moment, to feel his warmth on his skin again, to feel the solid embrace of another human. Gathering the last of his nerves, Castiel lets out a slow breath through his nose, mist filtering into the air.

The gate opens easily under his hands, and on steady footing, Castiel steps down the front walkway, past the dormant flowerbeds and the shrubbery sitting along the façade. Standing at the front door only unsettles him further, even more so when he rattles the door knocker, the thud matching his heart beat for beat.

For a long few seconds, Castiel hears nothing but the rumble of a truck passing through the night and a cat meowing through the window. Footsteps follow, though, slow and cautious; Castiel swallows and fists his hands in his coat pockets, expecting the worst. For someone else to be living there, for him to be dead, or to have the door slammed in his face for the last time.

Dean Winchester opens the door, dressed in a gray terrycloth robe with his initials sewn into the breast pocket, heavy socks covering his feet and the scars Castiel knows mar his ankles. Half of his face is darker than the rest, barely visible in the night, but there nonetheless; a burn of some sort, long since healed, but enough of a mark to tell a story Castiel doesn’t think he can bear to hear.

And for a long few seconds, they just stand there, together, Dean shocked and horrified, and Castiel’s heart threatening to burst, his knees weak. Slowly, Dean blinks, his hands twitching at his sides. “You’re not real,” he says, low, rougher than Castiel remembers. Worn from years of separation, like the rest of him. A tear forms in the corner of his eye, and Castiel longs to wipe it away, to comfort him once again, for old times’ sake.

Not now, though—another day, perhaps, when Castiel can explain himself, can heal the damage he’s done. “I’m here,” Castiel says, throat thick. He can’t cry, not here; if he cries, then he has no idea what Dean would do, how he would even react. “I’m back, Dean.”

Dean covers his mouth while Castiel breathes, no doubt attempting to keep himself from vomiting, or fainting. His next movement, though, stuns Castiel; Dean throws his arms around him without any forethought, and Castiel collapses against his chest, wary from weeks of traveling on foot, Dean’s weight the only thing keeping him upright. “You son of a bitch,” Dean huffs, but he buries his face in Castiel’s neck anyway, his entire body shaking, threatening to rattle out of his skin. “I thought you were dead.”

“I was,” Castiel wheezes, gripping Dean’s shirt all the same. “Can I come in?”

-+-

Dean’s house isn’t as ornate as the Bunker was, not by a long shot. Every room is painted a light sea-green with white baseboards and trim, and a few pictures decorate the walls, some from thrift stores, others from Lebanon, scorch patterns burned into the frames. A four-person dining table sits in the room adjoining the kitchen, with only three chairs pushed underneath. There’s a sectional in the living room facing a thirty-two inch television, with a cat sleeping on the ottoman, solid black save for a white spot surrounding one eye.

An office sits at the far end of the house, a treadmill placed by the window, adjacent to a desk. At some point, Dean upgraded to a desktop monitor and keyboard, his laptop nowhere to be seen.

One of the bedrooms, Castiel finds, is empty save for a bed and a dresser, and a JVC television sitting on top of a VCR. The other is Dean’s, from what Castiel can tell, with the same setup. His arsenal is gone, though, replaced with a rounded chest at the foot of his bed and paintings of the coast hanging on the walls. A lamp sits on the bedside table, and the ceiling fan remains dormant, a small plane dangling from one of the cords.

It’s simple—and it’s all Dean’s, according to what Dean tells him in the living room. Head in his hands, Dean looks down at his feet, and Castiel just watches him from the other side of the couch, hands in his lap and heart in his throat. It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to him. It should feel like coming home, or like Castiel never left, but it’s not. This house feels like a jail cell, like neither of them belong there.

If only Castiel could’ve come back sooner—then things would’ve been different. He doesn’t even know what year it is, or what season, but Dean is here, and that’s all that matters to him.

“You sure you don’t want any coffee or anything?” Dean asks after a while, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. If Castiel looked any harder, he could’ve sworn Dean was crying. “I got that tea you always liked.”

Castiel fists one hand to keep himself from gasping. Instead, he sucks in a deep breath through his nose, steadying himself. Dean remembered. Such a small thing, but Dean remembered, and Dean kept it on hand. For what reason, Castiel is scared to ask. When he left—when Castiel died—they weren’t entirely on the best of terms. Whatever anguish Castiel feels now, Dean’s must be magnified, to the point of speechlessness.

“Maybe later,” Castiel offers, earning a hopeful nod from Dean. “I just want to talk, if that’s alright with you.”

“Sure.”

Leaning back, Dean pulls one leg onto the couch, tucking his foot underneath his thigh. While Dean makes himself comfortable, tear-stained eyes and all, Castiel moves to the other end of the couch, settling himself at Dean’s side. Not too close, but they’ve always gravitated towards each other eventually. This time, though, Castiel has no idea what will happen. For once in his life, he can’t see the future, can’t predict Dean’s actions, his emotions; all he has to rely on is his instincts and Dean’s warmth.

This isn’t the reunion Castiel wanted—not even close.

“What happened?” Castiel asks to pass the time, gesturing to Dean’s face. Dean turns to him, the scar spanning from his forehead to his jaw, over one eye, even more visible in the lamplight. Cautiously, Castiel thumbs across the softened ridges, and inadvertently, Dean falls into his touch, cheeks heating just enough to redden his face.

“There was… God.” Dean shakes him off, turning away. “I lost everything, Cas. Something got in in the middle of the night and just… torched the Bunker. I got Sam out of bed and we grabbed what we could, but it was a total loss. Collapsed in on itself, and…” Covering his face with both hands, Dean smothers and sob. “It’s stupid. You… dying like that, it took a toll on both of us, man, and then someone tried to kill us in our sleep?”

Touching Dean’s knee won’t help ease the burden, but Castiel does it anyway, purely to comfort him, to keep Dean from breaking. This time, Dean lets him. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” Castiel says, forlorn. “Either of you. But where’s Sam?”

Dean makes a vague hand gesture in the direction of the kitchen. “College. After the fire, he decided he wanted to get his priorities straight. I spent… God, I don’t know how long, trying to figure out where you went after he left. I had nothing, Cas, and I got desperate, and…” He stops, dropping his hands to his lap. “I asked the Angels.”

Castiel furrows his brow. “You asked the Angels?”

“I summoned… someone. She never told me her name, but she told me that you’d ‘become one with the earth’ or some shit.” His sadness turns to a scowl, jaw clenching. “I thought you were dead, man. And now you’re… you again, and I don’t know what to believe.”

“I wasn’t dead,” Castiel amends, struggling to keep his tone neutral. Whatever he says now, he knows Dean won’t appreciate it. But it’s the truth, and it’s all he has. This is his only chance, and without Dean, he’ll be doomed to wander the earth until someone kills him, alone.

Dean glances up, skepticism in his gaze. “Th’ hell you mean, you weren’t dead? I asked everyone I could—”

“You took what they said literally,” Castiel adds, harsher than he intended. Dean just narrows his eyes. “I was dying.” Underneath his hand, Dean’s leg tenses. “I don’t know what happened, but it wasn’t curable. None of my siblings could save me, and someone suggested that I give my Grace to the earth, and in time, I would be reborn.”

Slowly, Dean breathes, visibly digging his nails into his palms. “So you just… killed yourself? Shit, you’re supposed to tell us this crap, and this is what you did?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Castiel growls. He pulls his hand away just in time for Dean to stand, stumbling across the room in anger. “If I did this, I could come back, but if I died, I would’ve been gone for eternity.”

“I lost you for five fuckin’ years,” Dean shouts. Castiel’s heart freezes—five years. He’s been gone for five years, lost in the fabric of the earth, and he never knew? “I thought you were dead. I gave you a fucking funeral, and I prayed to everyone I could to bring you back, and you did this… because what, you were too scared to tell me yourself? We could’ve fixed this—”

“This wasn’t something to be fixed, Dean,” Castiel growls.

“Like fuck it wasn’t.” Before Castiel can react, Dean seizes him by the collar, anger spilling over onto his cheeks. “What about me? How do you think it felt for me when you left?” Openly, Dean sobs, not even trying to hide his anguish any longer. “I tried to kill myself, Cas. I did everything I could to bring you back, and you were gone, and I couldn’t stand the fact that I never got to tell you…” He stops, wrings his hand tighter into Castiel’s tie. “You should’ve told me. And instead, you ran, like you always do, because you’re too scared to admit something was wrong.”

“Dean,” Castiel hisses.

“Fuck off.” Dean shoves him away, holding a hand over his mouth. “Stay here, get the fuck out, I don’t care. Just…” He leaves without finishing his sentence, disappearing down the hall and behind his bedroom door.

The lock clicks, and Castiel is alone once again. Falling onto the couch, he palms his eyes and tries to keep the despair in his chest from bubbling over, from letting it flow from his fingertips into everything he touches. Not a good idea; he’s already screwed up enough with Dean, he doesn’t need to destroy his belongings with it.

Maybe this can’t be fixed after all, but Castiel can try. Tomorrow, he’ll start over, try to earn back Dean’s trust, for however long it takes. For now, he sits and weeps, shoulders caving with the sudden weight.

Five years—five years too many.

-+-

Castiel is in the front yard when Dean finds him the next morning, tending to the dying rose bushes lining the concrete walkway. Half of them are blooming as much as they can in the cold, while the others struggle but eventually sprout flowers, pink and red petals opening to the sun. Whether they’ll make it through the night is the question, but for now, Castiel extends a hand to them and lets his energy spill from his hands into the soil, until he can smell the scent of spring.

He knows Dean is watching, but that doesn’t stop Castiel from wandering the yard, running his hands over whatever he can: the grass, a splintered palm tree, a lone lily in a ceramic pot by the door. When he ventures a look, though, he sees the wonder on Dean’s face and the withheld anger, now made way for exhaustion. In the daylight, Castiel can see the dark circles marring Dean’s face and the darkened scars underneath his t-shirt, spread over patches of his chest and all the way down his right arm.

Looking at them makes Castiel ache, in every way he can.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Dean says, tucking his thumbs into the pockets of his sweatpants. He looks comfortable here, like this is where he was always meant to be—and how he got here, is a journey no one should ever have to face. A homeowner, but at what cost? “I didn’t think you’d…”

Castiel turns his head. “I didn’t return for my own sake,” he says, garnering Dean’s attention. “I wanted to make amends, for leaving you like I did. I thought we could pick up where we left off, but… I don’t think that’s possible.”

“It’s not,” Dean adds. Castiel’s blood runs cold, but Dean’s fingers against his own calms him, stills his heart. “It’s been… too damn long, Cas. It’s not gonna be the way it was anymore, but… We could try again?”

A second chance—that’s all Castiel ever wanted. “I won’t leave you this time,” Castiel swears, taking Dean’s hand in his. Dean flushes, embarrassment tinging his ears. “What can I do to make you believe me?”

Dean considers this for a minute, all the while, his eyes on the footpath. “I don’t know,” he eventually sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I got no freakin’ idea, but just being here’d help. I kinda… haven’t talked to anyone in a few months. Really talked, not just chatting up the cashier at Harvey’s.”

Castiel offers a quiet smile. “I have time.”

-+-

Sam calls the following afternoon, a few minutes before Dean is supposed to return home. Initially, Castiel ignores the phone ringing inside the house, too busy sitting in the glider in the backyard with Salem the cat’s head perched on his thigh. It continues to ring, though, even after going to voicemail, and even more glaringly obvious than before.

With reluctance, Castiel removes himself from his seat, much to Salem’s protest, and steps inside, reaching around the corner to pick up the receiver. “Dean, aren’t you supposed to be at work?” Sam asks, expectant of someone that’s not even home.

Castiel’s heart sinks—Sam doesn’t know. “Hello, Sam,” Castiel says, all he knows how to say.

Sam is silent long enough that Castiel begins to think he hung up, all until he hears a rustle and a door creaking shut on the end other end. “Cas?” Sam echoes. “You’re—We thought you were—”

“It appears I’ve been reincarnated,” Castiel says. “I’m not an Angel anymore.”

“Really?” Chair legs creak; he must be in an office, or a classroom. “Are you human?”

“Not… entirely,” Castiel supplies. Cordless phone in hand, he steps outside again to sit in the glider; Salem resumes her position, purring and eagerly awaiting Castiel’s hand again. “I don’t know what I am, but I can heal things. I’ve been reviving the plants, for the most part.”

“That’s… That’s great, Cas.” Whatever joy Sam feels is overshadowed by the disbelief in his voice, words coming in slow, calculated bursts. “We were both… We couldn’t find you for a year, and I gave up. I shouldn’t’ve doubted Dean, but you just dropped off the face of the earth.”

Castiel sighs. “I know. But you have to understand, you and your brother… It was either I sacrifice myself, or die. God already said that this was our last chance, and I would’ve done anything to keep from losing you, both of you.”

Another pause, this one just filled with breathing. Meanwhile, Castiel waits and watches the clouds, listens to the cars pass on the two-lane. “I’m sorry,” Sam eventually says. “I never should’ve given up on you so easily.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says, closing his eyes. “There was nothing you could’ve done except wait. I didn’t anticipate it being five years, though.” He stops to laugh, heart aching in his chest. “I missed you. Both of you.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you found Dean,” Sam adds with strained amusement. “He finally settled down and became a farmer. This time of year, he’s out in the pecan fields. Did he tell you?”

“He didn’t,” Castiel comments, brow furrowed. Why wouldn’t Dean tell him that? Though, that would explain why he smells like soil. “Is he ashamed?”

“I don’t think so. He’s just new to civilian life, y’know? He’ll come around.” Sam mutes the line for a few seconds with his hand, coming back with, “Hey, can I call you back? I have a client here.”

A client—Sam has a client. “Of course, Sam,” Castiel adds. The Impala’s engine begins to roar into range, and Castiel’s heart jumps. “I missed you.”

Sam laughs. “Missed you too, Cas.”

-+-

“Your brother called,” Castiel mentions two nights later, while Dean is dozing on his shoulder on the couch, still smelling of dirt and leaf-litter, all from a job Dean refuses to divulge the details of.

Dean doesn’t stir, not immediately; he simply blinks at the television for a while longer, too exhausted to fight. The past few days have taken a toll on both of them, just being around each other, returning to a new semblance of normal. Dean works from seven in the morning until sometime during the early afternoon, and together they cook dinner in relative silence, unless Dean feels the need to speak or to ask a question. Mostly nonsensical things, but sometimes about where Castiel was, about his powers—none of them, Castiel can answer fully, but Dean accepts any answer as the truth. Just as long as they’re together, he’ll believe anything.

“Did he start crying?” Dean asks.

In a mess of limbs, Dean manages to spread himself across the couch, his head in Castiel’s lap. Like nothing changed—like they used to do when Sam wasn’t around, when Dean needed comfort and Castiel needed someone to listen. Now, Castiel suspects it’s the opposite, or more or less the same.

“He sounded busy,” is Castiel’s answer. Hesitantly, he rests his hand atop Dean’s head, testing Dean’s limits, his desires. Rather than fighting, Dean sighs and reaches up to palm Castiel’s thigh, and Castiel warms with the touch. “Were you planning to tell him?”

For a minute, Dean remains silent, his breaths even, sometimes stuttering when Castiel pets through his hair, teasing behind his ear. “Not yet,” Dean mumbles. “Wanted you to myself for a bit. Figured, if he found out you’re alive, he’s gonna get on the first flight out here.” He stops, eyes flicking up just the slightest. “Is that selfish?”

“Maybe,” Castiel hums, leaning back into the couch cushions. “More than one person right now might be… a bit much for me to handle, as well.”

At that, Dean huffs a laugh, afterwards lapsing into silence again. A semi-truck passes on the road, its headlights illuminated through the closed curtains. The night moves, unhurried and solemn. “I missed you,” Dean says eventually. His skin flushes against Castiel’s fingers, his body utterly relaxed in Castiel’s grasp. “Like you wouldn’t believe. I thought things were good, I thought you were gonna stay for good, and one morning you were just… gone.”

“I know,” Castiel mumbles, closing his eyes. “Believe me, if it had been any other situation, I would’ve stayed.”

“What caused it?” Slowly, Dean rolls over and dislodges Castiel’s hand, now lying on his back, head still propped up on Castiel’s thigh. He’s crying again, but Castiel thinks that this may be a common occurrence, a side of Dean he’s never been allowed to see, not until now. Years’ worth of emotion flowing freely, unchecked and untamed, like the rest of him. “You said you were dying, but…”

Castiel shakes his head, letting out a ragged breath. “I don’t know. My siblings said it was a virus of sorts, attacking my Grace at the source. Only a few Angels have ever been infected, but it was millennia ago, long enough that we forgot about it. By the time I found out I was infected, it was almost too late.”

Dean looks up at him, green eyes gone bloodshot; Castiel wipes away the tears streaming into Dean’s hairline. “You should’ve told us, though,” he says in defeat. “You shoulda told me, at least. I thought we had something, like…”

“Were you in love with me?” Castiel asks, wary.

Slowly, Dean nods. He never breaks their gaze, terrifyingly sure of himself in that moment—all Castiel wants to do is choke on the adoration in his eyes. “I never stopped,” Dean whispers. “I kept looking for you. Every few months, even after I moved here… I kept checking the papers, kept looking for any reappearances or mass healings, but… nothing. It’s almost like when you died… the fighting stopped.” He stops to swallow, a hand over his face. “No one’s seen a demon in three years, Cas. All the Angels left. All we’ve got left are the run of the mill stuff, and even then…”

“Do you think I was the cause of everything?” Castiel asks, throat thick. Because if that were true, if he were the reason that Dean and Sam lost everyone they loved, that the Angels continued to come to their own slaughter and Demons continued blazing paths across the country, then…

“You know I don’t know that,” Dean sighs. “It’s a coincidence, but… I think without you, everyone lost hope. I know I did. But… The Angels, they looked up to you, and without you…”

Castiel swallows, hangs his head. “I didn’t want to lead them,” he admits, sheepish.

“But you mattered to them.” Gradually, Dean sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. He leans forward, elbows on his knees when he says, “You mattered to all of us, and we needed you. Some of us just didn’t… realize it until it was too late.”

Before Dean can properly react, Castiel kisses his cheek; in the aftermath, Castiel stays close, watches as Dean turns his face until their foreheads are pressed together, stealing each other’s air. “I’m not sorry about what I did,” Castiel says, watching Dean’s eyelids fall. “But I’m sorry I hurt you. You know that’s not what I wanted.”

“I don’t care about that,” Dean hisses. “I just care that you’re here now. These last few years… I didn’t think I’d live this long without you. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d make it past the first month.”

“You’re strong,” Castiel offers. Hand cupping Dean’s bare knee, he presses a kiss just below Dean’s eye, just to hear him gasp. “You’ve always been strong.”

Dean shakes his head. “Not strong enough. Not without you.”

“I’m here now.” And Castiel draws him into an embrace, Dean’s head tucked into the curve of his throat, where Dean rests, holding Castiel just as tight. “For as long as I can be, I’m here.”

“I wanna know what you are,” Dean chuckles, his voice still just as haunted as before. “I do, I wanna… You’re not human, but you’re not an Angel.”

“We could summon someone and ask,” Castiel suggests. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Dean nods. “Another day,” he says, pulling far enough away to pull Castiel into a kiss, a proper one, wet with tears and unbridled love. “Want you to myself right now.”

Castiel doesn’t humor him with a response—he just kisses Dean again and again, swallowing every sound Dean makes, until that’s all he hears, and nothing more.

-+-

Dean moans Castiel’s name like a prayer, like the sweetest music Castiel has ever heard in the history of creation. Trembling fingers hold onto Castiel’s hips, sliding along sweaty skin for the briefest of seconds, the seconds that Castiel craves even more than Dean’s contact. A loss of control, of giving himself over to lust and love and whatever else flows between them, thickening the air.

Castiel braces his hands on Dean’s chest, mouth hanging open as he pushes down again; a gasp escapes him when Dean holds on tighter, feet digging into the spare bed’s sheets. Enough leverage to thrust up and in, to nearly unbalance Castiel with his enthusiasm, but Castiel could care less—not when they kiss, not when Dean pulls out far enough to flip them over without losing contact, or throwing them off the mattress. The world could come to an end, and Castiel would never give up this moment, for as long as he lives.

Of the few orgasms Castiel has experienced in his life, none of them have been as sweet as this one, with Dean’s lips on his and Dean’s hand between them, his release spilling through dirtied fingers. In the aftermath, Castiel idly watches Dean bring himself off, his body lax and compliant, accepting Dean eagerly. What shocks him more, is that Dean doesn’t pull out after he’s done, purely content to kiss Castiel until his cock softens and slips free on its own.

The condom ends up somewhere near the trash can; Castiel can’t be bothered to remember where, not when Dean draws him into his arms and kisses marks into the bolt of his jaw, uncaring of the mess they’ve made. And Castiel just lets him, arching and panting when Dean fists him again, softer now, but imploring.

“Wanna go again,” Dean begs, crawling over Castiel and cradling his face in both palms. “You wanna?”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. This is all he’s ever wanted, the only thing he’ll ever need for the rest of his life—Dean’s hands on him, in him, in every manner possible. “Please, Dean.”

Dean huffs a breath, shifting down Castiel’s body and kissing a trail down his chest in his wake, over dark hair and the stains of Castiel’s release, over unblemished skin, heated red in their tryst. The minute Dean swallows him down for the second time that night, Castiel is lost to the world, his existence narrowed down to the man between his legs, and the love dripping from his tongue.

-+-

It begins to rain the following morning, and with the rain comes gray skies and the potential for flooding. With Dean spreading kisses across his nape, Castiel watches the clouds pass from Dean’s bedroom window, the blankets pulled tight around their waists, keeping out the worst of the chill.

Comfortable as it is, Castiel can’t help but think, memories flitting across his mind every few minutes. Of times gone past, of events that never took place, of fantasies he always imagined would come true. None of them, though, match up to Dean’s arms around him, lips grounding him into the moment, in that bed, in Dean’s home.

It feels surreal, Castiel thinks, burying his face in a pillow; like he’s still dreaming, and this is the last memory he has of Dean to keep him going.

“Sam thinks I’m a farmer,” Dean says when the heat has subsided. Castiel falls onto his back and Dean curls closer, head on Castiel’s chest and Castiel’s arm around him. “That’s what I told him, but… I just go out and do whatever people need done. It doesn’t pay much, but I just make enough to get by.” He stops to laugh, his body rattling with the noise. “I won a scratch off. First time in my life, I won something, so I got this place.”

“It’s quaint,” Castiel comments. Simple suits it more, but he has a feeling Dean knows just how mundane it is, how it blends into the landscape, never even noticed by travelers.

Dean smothers a yawn into his fist. “It’s all I got. I’ve never owned anything before, not like this, and it’s… God, it’s terrifying. I’m scared to live like this, and I keep thinking someone’s gonna come in and stab me in my sleep. Then there’s Salem, and I always wonder, if I died, what would happen to her?”

Castiel exhales, keeping his eyes to the ceiling. “You live for her,” he says, not necessarily a question. Still, Dean nods, sucking in a deep breath. “You’ve taken good care of her.”

“Kinda felt like I had to.” Dean shrugs. “When I moved in, she was living in the back room. Place was a dump, and she wasn’t any better off.” He stops, swallows. “She reminded me of you. And I hated it at first, but it… helped, I guess. She has your eyes.”

Idly, Castiel runs his fingers along Dean’s bicep, over the bullet wound he received over ten years ago. Out of everything, Dean’s scars haven’t changed, unlike the man bearing them; in his arms, Dean is a shadow of his former self, bravado abandoned for isolated domesticity. A house, a yard and a picket fence, but no family save for a cat, and no steady job.

He’s still Dean, though—just not the Dean that Castiel left behind in a moment of self-preservation. If only Castiel had been there for the last five years—would the circumstances have been different? Would they still be here, but older, happier? As it is, a weight bears down on Castiel’s chest, knowing that this wasn’t the future he had envisioned for them. But it’s the future they have, the future they’ll have to live with until the world collapses and takes them with it.

“I think I’ve been reincarnated as a… spirit, of sorts,” Castiel says in the newly created lull. Dean looks up to him briefly, stubble scraping against sweat-tacky skin. “I’m not a god, but I’m not human, either.”

“My yard looks great, by the way,” Dean joshes, patting Castiel’s thigh.

Castiel chuckles, planting a kiss in Dean’s hair. “Does it bother you, that I’m still inhuman?”

Dean mulls it over, humming all the while. Worming out of Castiel’s hold, he sits up and rubs his face, and Castiel takes a moment to look at Dean in the gray midmorning light. The scars are worse underneath his arm and down his side, but they’ve healed the best they could, all raised edges and deep pits, the coloring evened out by years spent laboring in the sun. Castiel can’t help but push Dean back onto the mattress and kiss every inch of them, starting at Dean’s hip and working his way up.

“I don’t mind,” Dean squeaks, afterwards clearing his throat. “I’m… just glad you’re here. You could be a vamp, for all I care, and I’d still want you with me.”

“I’m glad.” Castiel kisses his lips, just long enough to help Dean relax. Gracefully, he props himself up over Dean’s torso, looking down at the man beneath him, beautiful despite all his wounds and the sadness in his eyes, never to be erased. “I’m glad you’ve found yourself here,” he continues. “That you’re still here today.”

It doesn’t take much for Dean to cry these days, Castiel finds. With their next kiss, Dean breaks again, but neither of them mention it, even when Dean’s chest heaves and he begs for air. In the shadow of the rain, they kiss and cling to each other, and Dean hides his face in Castiel’s chest until the tremors subside and he can speak again, albeit forced.

“If I killed myself…” Dean starts. Castiel’s heart rate picks up, just a little. “If you came back and I was dead, what would you’ve done?”

That’s a question Castiel hasn’t considered in this context, but it’s one that he thought about constantly as an Angel, about what he would’ve done if Dean and Sam perished, and the gates to Heaven closed indefinitely. Or, until humanity destroyed itself and the Angels returned for the remaining Watchers. “I think… I would’ve healed people,” Castiel says in all sincerity. “All I’ve wanted to do is help people, but… I would’ve lamented your death. I would mourn your loss, even if the world forgot you.”

Dean sniffles with more force than necessary; that doesn’t keep a tear from escaping though, hidden in the crease of his nose. “The next time you decide you wanna die,” he starts, voice wavering, “can you at least say goodbye? Please, that’s just… We need to talk about these things. I think now more than ever, we need to just… sit down and talk. Shoot the shit, get hammered and yell at each other, do anything other than just ignoring whatever’s going on. It never got us anywhere in the past.”

“I know,” Castiel sighs. He cups Dean’s cheek, tracing his fingers over unmarred skin. “Do you think we’ll ever be what we were?”

With all surety, Dean shakes his head. He leans into Castiel’s palm, pressing a kiss to the center of it, and Castiel sighs against his cheek. “Let’s start over,” Dean says through a kiss. “How’s that sound? Settle down here, plant some roots. Adopt a whole herd of cats, I don’t care.”

Castiel chuckles, nudging Dean’s nose with his own. “Hello, Dean.”

Impossibly, Dean’s smile is enough to warm the chill in his bones, to relight the fire in his heart. Never dormant, only dimmed. “Hey, Cas.”

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from? I was gonna write this for the Tropefest Mid-Winter 5k but it got too long and I got really excited about it so WHOOPS. But good news, I'm gonna be writing a second part within the next few days hopefully, so we'll get to see Sam soon! Team Free Will reunion!
> 
> Title is from the Lee Ann Womack song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


End file.
